


It Started With Stage Fright

by chrissy2



Category: Bon Jovi
Genre: F/M, Having Two Soulmates, M/M, Mid-life Crisis, Nostalgia Of Fun Past Times, Occasional Friendship-Sexual-Business Mind Games, Occasional Trysts Between Friends, Old Footage Found On Youtube Because I'm Youtube Trash, Pining, Sexual-Romantic Confusion, Something I Call "Bandmate Jealousy", Touring Madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6813133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissy2/pseuds/chrissy2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon knew that it was his fault that Richie left. No one was more of an insufferable bastard than Jon Bon Jovi when he was working. He had left the band two other times before, but not like this. Not this abruptly, not this indirectly. Jon's memory is not very good, not only because he's getting older, but because he intentionally tried to block a lot of the past out. Now, he looks back on all that he can remember, looking back on his history with a guitarist of thirty years. He doesn't remember when and how they got close, but he believes it started with his stage fright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. It is not meant to represent the real-life personalities in a negative way nor in an idealistic way. Also, I don't hold anything against the Bratz dolls, really. Just the recent ones.

It was somewhere in Europe, if Jon could recall, the jet lag and time zones and hunger, anxiety, giving Jon the delusion that his voice had gone bad, that his dancing was off, that the timing was off. Or maybe it really was. It was a stress no man could handle. Well, not for a sensitive, perfectionist diva like himself. To this day, he still wasn't used to it.

 **His long hairs tickle his face and his breath warms his neck.** _Hey._

 _Don't touch me._ **Jon growls and moves away. He was in no mood for his pitying bullshit. No mood for Richie cooing at poor, little, naïve Jonny.**

 **Richie shifts in his direction, becoming close again.** _Hey, come on, man. Don't be mad, Jon. Be glad!_

 **Normally Jon would laugh, whether it was because he actually found him funny or to at least pretend to to make him feel good. But tonight was not a good night. Tonight, after a flawed performance, a night Jon called 'the worst show ever', his jokes were getting on his nerves. It was worse when he felt like Richie wasn't taking him seriously, like he was just adoring a child throwing a tantrum.** _Rich, I swear to god._

 **There's a pause, the silence making the already dark room darker, then,** _You're thinking too much again._

 **Jon knows he should turn around and face him because it's the adult thing to do, but he doesn't want to. He's too embarrassed.** _No, it was bad. Everything went wrong._

_The fans outside don't seem to think so. I hear nothing but good things._

**Jon scoffs.** _As if they would know what real performing is._

_Jon, you have to appreciate your fans, otherwise you just look like an asshole. In the end, it's about makes them happy because they are the ones that brought us here. That's just the business, Kidd._

Jon did not know what pissed him off more--the superficial industry or the mostly stupid populace, the fact that most of them had no sense of context.

 

 

_When you walked into the party,_

_The guests all disappeared._

_You dropped in with a group of friends._

_I didn't notice they were there._

 

 

Richie had left the band a couple of times before, but not like this; not this abruptly, this indirectly. Who was the one that fucking stressed about fan service and what not. He was never the type to send someone else to give a message. The guy was way too assertive. Since when was he afraid of him? Jon foresaw and dreaded this day, but luckily, even though he was still as sensitive and as anxious as he had always been--ever since he was a dreaming nineteen-year-old with a broken guitar down the basement stairs, over-worn party clothes and no official history--he was too _old_ to panic. Too _old_ for this shit. By that point, his poker face and ability to adapt--a shelter here and there, father of four, a football coach, actor and front man--surpassed that of all of his bandmates.

But he would be a lying prick if he said he got there on his own. On his own, he'd probably be broke. Or dead.

 

 

_Was it the way your fingers held that glass,_

_The way your lips broke when you laughed?_

 

 

Some days he really did enjoy Richie's company, was flattered that a successful guy in four or five other bands upon their meeting actually bothered himself with him and his group of amateurs. But at the back of his mind was the businessman, it's gender and birth debatable. Whether it was created from a--how did it go?--a 'disappointed idealist', or from listening to Richie's pitying rants over the years, Jon did not know. Honestly, he could remember jack shit from the old days. Too old for that too. Some days, the gender-confused businessman spoke a lot, obsessing over little Jon's tactics, belittling his bleeding heart, his romanticism, this idiot of a bandmate that he had to put up with--this stupid, joking, smiling idiot--to keep his profession going. He was at the very least gifted and money-minded. 

 

 

_I don't care if the devil's keeping score._

_For just one look, I'd crawl across the floor._

 

 

The guitarist was even worse when he was drunk.

 **Richie waves his finger around and announces drunkenly for the tenth time:** _I knew one day I'd be in AUSTRALIA!_ **Yeah, he had always wanted to go there.**

And he fucking was. He was there, right now, with that Orianthi woman, Jon had heard. Geez, first there was this Linda or other, now this Orianthi? He probably already sold his dignity to the woman just to get laid, all the while receiving a decent salary and keeping his chick-magnet image. Well, he _may_ have been in Australia right now. Or not. He was probably in some other country performing with her. Or he was still on fucking vacation in Hawaii with his daughter. 'Personal issues'. Yeah, right. Apparently, Orianthi was some Australian hipster in her thirties that at times collaborated with Alice Cooper. He at least gave it to Richie for dating someone, or 'dating' someone, somewhat close to his age, someone affiliated with a somewhat decent group, and not making his obvious mid-life crisis too apparent. (Although, her music used in a movie promoting those horrendous Bratz dolls made Jon cringe a little. Not that Jon could say anything. He never in his life thought he would sell himself out to commercials.)

Jon knew he had already been through his. What he did not know was whether or not he was completely over it. He knew he was experiencing the angst of mid-life once he actually started considering God again. It came out as 'recovering Catholic' in interviews. Then he knew he had lost his mind.

 **In the middle of his no doubt boring speeches in between music videos, the tipsy Richie tugs at the sleeves of Jon's jacket with the very tips of his calloused, string-picking fingers, using his infamous Richard Starkey impersonation,** _Hey, uh, I really like this jacket a lot, man._

 _Thank you._ **Jon never once thought Ringo Starr sounded that nasally. He never understood why impersonators exaggerated it like that. (Was it his nose? Come on, people.) His response is awkward. He knows he's just throwing this out to entertain the kids and goes with it.**

 _I do._ **More tugging.** _Where'd_ _you get it?_

 **He pulls the sleeve out of his fingertips, as awkward as before, his annoyance tenuous.** _Don't touch my jacket._

 **Richie throws his hands up jokingly.** _Oh, sorry._

**Jon laughs. It's tired, but genuine. As he continues, there is that familiar spark of flattery from the feel of those fingertips, a power that he sometimes enjoys using to his advantage.**

He wished humor came as easily as it did for Richie. But not everyone in the world can be the same. It's what made the guitarist so tenacious, redirecting his moods to the blues of his solo records, leaving nothing but exuberance for the outside world, a most positive vibe. Jon has tried, but in the end, he's too literal and too cynical, afraid that something will go amiss in his carelessness.

 

 

_Who would you die for?_

_Who would you die for?_

 

 

To be fair, his drinking did get out of control. He had confronted the guitarist about it, but he would just shrug it off and joke and continue, making Jon exhale a low, somewhat irritated sigh. He tried to not let it get to this point. He tried to stop it before Richie had to be arrested for a DUI--his own daughter and a girl friend of hers in the backseat of the fucking car--to finally get it through to him how dangerous the situation was. He said he would not drink again after that, for the sake of his daughter, but Jon knew better.

He clearly didn't care for her that much.

No. That was harsh. He was getting a divorce and his fucking father died.

Alcoholism is not that easy to overcome.

Of course, he loved his baby girl.

Truth be told, Jon never really liked Heather. He tried to swallow his disliking as much as possible, respecting Richie for finally deciding to settle down. But she was just so full of herself. (In those times, the businessman would go, _Oh, because you're so not full of yourself, you little bitch.)_  And she hardly ever paid attention to her daughter, leaving that responsibility to a broken Richie in the divorce.

It may have been because the man was a popular jock in school, as Jon wasn't. (Not that he had anything against sports. Football was one of his favorite things.) He still hadn't gotten over the sheer humiliation he felt as a boy, when he was too chicken shit to finish a race and went straight home, feeling like the biggest loser in the world. It may have been because a girl has never told him no--(not that he was a _complete_  love rat, he was no Paul McCartney or Gene Simmons)--or that his mother gave him all the time in the world to reach his goals and move out whenever he was ready. But regardless, Jon had no room to judge. Not openly, anyway. He was not exactly innocent either. Although he had often spoken out against drug use, Jon found himself gulping down pills with a bottle of wine probably more times than he would like to admit, just to get a little shut eye while on the road. (The businessman going, _You do know that's what ruined Judy Garland, right?)_ He knew how tough it could be. He probably knew more than anyone. If he wanted to save a few bucks, he'd find solitude and privacy in one of their vans instead of a hotel. Lock all the doors, darken the windows, have some peace for one goddamn minute.

Sometimes, the bass and screaming was so overwhelming, he felt annoyance at the slightest noise and silence became his true favorite song. He'd engulf himself in a black silence. He didn't want to see or hear anything.

 

 

_I wanna know your secrets and your sins._

_I wanna feel you breathing out and in._

 

 

He waited for the day he would lose his patience, scream at someone and let a recording of it get leaked to the internet. Or become addicted to pills. Or accidentally overdose. It hadn't come yet. He hoped it never would have to come to that.

 

 

_I wanna know,_

_I wanna know._

 

 

 **Jon turns to the tipsy man and tries to order through a slightly aggravated smile and tone:** _Dude, you're driving these kids nuts. Stop saying that_ **[you're happy to be in Australia].** _They're gonna change the channel._ **He could feel his toes impatiently tapping the soles of his snake-skinned boots.**

Looking back on it, Jon himself wasn't sure if that was more of an attempt at comedic value or if it was just to get his guitarist to shut up.

 

 

_The way you move it's almost holy._

_Hope you don't know that you own me._

 

 

Jon knew Richie's departure was his fault. Why else would he be so indirect? No one else was more of an insufferable bastard than Jon Bon Jovi whenever he was working. If only he had as much time as he did before 'Slippery When Wet', a time when they thought their schedules couldn't be any tighter. If only he had as much time he had before they were sold into whatever the hell this was. Only a few words came to mind: Deception. Pretentiousness. Boundaries. Corporation. If only he could flip back to that chapter in their lives, when they were grateful enough to even have ten bucks left to buy something other than pizza or cheap beer; when they would laugh their way through the crappy living conditions of their tiny, crummy apartment until the debut, when they actually had _time_ to soul search.

 

 

_All I want is all of you and more._

 

 

There _were_ quite a number of times of Jon snapping at Richie, the number of times growing more frequent and more obvious as they got older and colder, his insecurities as well as compassion slowly withering away with each person Jon overcame or fired to climb higher and higher. He would snap at him, sometimes on stage in front of their very audience, like the time he mumbled for him to stop playing, the mic being close enough to capture the whine. And the time Richie forgot his cue and told him and their classic string player to 'get a room, already'.

It really was meant to be a joke.

_Jon, you just can't live under constant fear. You can't let small things get to you. You'll go crazy, man._

Jon actually couldn't remember the first kiss. Or rather, the first _intimacy._ He preferred to put it like that. 'First kiss' didn't sound right to him. It made it sound so juvenile and romantic, when it was more complicated than that. You would think it would be something you would not forget, but three decades--an uncountable amount of shows, phone calls and lists and an existential crisis leading to a haitus, then another climb back up the ladder--a lot of trivial details were blacked out like an alcoholic delirium. (Hehe. Irony.)

 **He remembered bringing his long-haired, punkass self up to the stool and mic on a stage and saying,** _I have never been more nervous for a show in my life,_ **a** **s if they cared.**

Jon believes it started with the stage fright.

Believe it or not, in his early years, he used to get horribly nervous, probably more so than what people usually think when they hear 'stage fright'. He'd even share his nervousness with the audience in an attempt to charm them, connect with them, and at the same time, get it out of his system.

Even a decade later, in his fucking thirties with his controversially short hair, he found himself walking up to a piano one night, his hands visibly shaking at the keys, his lips trembling as he spoke, _Wow. Even after all this time, I still get nervous._

He wouldn't eat or sleep until a show was carried out. If he was forced to eat, he would almost hurl it all back up. He was sure he did at least once. And with his short breaths and rapid heartbeat pumping up into his throat, it was a wonder he could sing a single note without stuttering or even stand to dance from the lack of rest and nutrition. He was running on pure nerves in those times.

(1984, 1985 then?)

And as you know, Richie was and continued to remain verbally assertive. (Up until recently, of course.) His gift for easy communication came in handy when starting businesses, making his own label and lead singing four or five other bands before them. (That's something a lot of people did not know, that he was originally a lead singer.) So him being super affectionate came as no surprise, giving out random hugs and high-fives to sometimes complete strangers. _Good morning to you, sir/madam. Hope your day's going A-Okay!_ Jon once read a report that unusually affectionate men were three out of four times likely to have been raised under the influence of open-minded feminist mothers, which was true for the both of them, actually. They were both kind of mama's boys. Not that they held anything against their fathers. And it was funny--Jon's father, the original John Bongiovi, was a hairdresser, not the most conventional of occupations for the masculine gender. In fact, he was the one that gave them all hair extensions in the eighties. (He remembered all the times he would skip school to go see him in his shop--109 absences in his senior year, to be exact--and his father would shake his head. _Jonny boy, that's gonna get back at you. I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life, I'm just telling you to prepare for the consequences._ The memories still make him tear up. He missed him so much.) It's a wonder Jon grew to be comfortable going in and out of fashions and lifestyles of both genders without thinking about it.

The kisses, however, is what really caught him off guard. At first. It wasn't like it was socially unacceptable or anything. He had kissed his father and brothers at times, but you know, they were his father and brothers. (He doesn't really have too many memories of kissing his cousin, though; the one that founded the very studio he started performing in under his birth name just a year or two before David and Tico and a couple of interchanging guys.) He probably just wasn't used to getting kisses outside the family. He'd tell Richie and the guy would just laugh and apologize-- _Nah, it's cool, man--_ only to forget and kiss him out of habit later, repeating the cycle. But Jon later learned to appreciate this when he was feeling uneasy, like when he was dealing with his stupid stage fright.

And so, Jon started leaning into the man's shoulder, sometimes on the side, his thick wavy hair pillowing his cheek, and sometimes his very nose and lips dipping into his shirt or jacket.   

What was really sweet is that Richie did not mind at all, and seemed to have forgotten how uncomfortable Jon claimed to have been in the past. He must have experienced the same kind of nervousness at one point, being a front man himself. But then again, probably not. He probably overcame it a long time ago, when he started playing football in school, easily learning to shrug off the pressures of winning. 

Over time, he didn't think anything of leaning onto him, even with a camera on them, capturing every moment of their lives behind the scenes. It just happened and it became natural. Not just to help with the stage fright, but because he was tired or just because he could out of boredom. The others did not seem to care or notice. And it did help, at least a little. Made him think of the times he would cuddle with his little brother Matthew as they fell asleep in the backseat of their parent's car and in his sleep-wake, hear their mother adoring them. Richie often smelled like leather from the jackets he wore. After shows, he'd smell like sweat.

It was a bit of a shock to learn that Richie was an only child. Jon tried to imagine his life without his brothers. It wasn't the worst thing in the world, but to have no siblings to share experiences with in itself sounded awfully lonesome. Suddenly, being involved in extracurricular activities and developing a friendliness in an attempt to connect with others made a lot of sense.

(Yes, somewhere in Europe. Paris, maybe?)

He did remember the coat he wore--some kind of pilot coat--but it could have been a few other places in mind. (Paris came to mind because he did remember posing with that same coat for a black and white photo, the Eiffel Tower in the foggy distance.) All he knew was that it was cold as fuck and it was a time they were still wearing their ridiculous cowboy attire. Richie was wearing his black cowboy hat, the one with the beads along the bending line. Jon and the others later grew out of that fashion, losing a lot of the leather, the somewhat Native American based clothes from the seventies, and losing a lot of their hair at the turn of the nineties. Richie kept his long hairs longer than the rest of them, not cutting it short until the pending 2000s, the turn of the century.

This proved him to be the most sentimental of them all. He kept that stupid hat for future concerts, as well as a couple of coats from that time, if Jon could recall. He wore it all the way down to his thirty-year mark. That same black, beaded cowboy hat.

He remembered leaning onto him on that cold, cold night somewhere in Europe, anticipating a show, Alec laughing at him, _Ha! Even after all this time, our pretty, punkass front man is still scared to death!--You would think he'd gotten bored of it by now--Jon, listen to me, man. It's all for nothing. You could literally grunt into a mic while Richie plays and girls would still go crazy for you--_ [Jon wasn't sure if that made him feel better or not, just stressed him out more knowing that if he wasn't attractive, no one would probably care for him, even if he had the best singing voice in the world]-- _That doesn't go for guys like me, haha! I'm not pretty like you._

(If Jon could recall, Richie told him that Alec was the one that introduced Jon to him because he was, quote, 'moonlighting over him'. There you have it, folks. It's possible that Bon Jovi was brought to you by a crush.)

He had already slipped his guitar over his shoulder--also black--but Jon could not help himself. Watching everyone prepare for a show only reminded him that the time was drawing nearer and nearer, intensifying the anxiety. (In those times, he would ask himself, 'Why did I want to become a rock star again? Oh, yeah. To get chicks.') He slowly dips his face into the black leather jacket that matched the damn hat and guitar, careful not to damage the instrument in between them. _Hey, now! I just got my guitar out!_ The vibration of his chuckles can be felt in his nose and lips, the coolness of the leather here, the strings of the shoulder strap there. And lastly, there is the warmth of his hand at his ear as he strokes his hair.

 

 

_I don't care if the devil's keeping score._

_For just one kiss, I'd crawl across the floor._

 

 

Before a show, no doubt. No matter how cold, they would be drenched in sweat by the end of a performance, long past stripping down to one layer of clothing.


	2. Chapter 2

He believed Howard Stern called it 'Lead Singers Disease'. (Yes, LSD. Ha-ha-ha.)

**Below the empty, littered stadium was a lonely Jon in the lobby, sitting where he had been sitting for the past several minutes. He sat on the floor, against the wall, one leg stretched out before him, the other bent up, his hanging head occasionally resting on the bent knee.**

The lead singer will conjure a mishap in their vocals, a 'cough', when under intense pressure from rising fame, real or imaginary.

 **His gloom put them all under a painful silence. David, a man who never liked gloom or conflict, was the first to excuse himself, then Alec. Tico didn't even pretend to be nice about it, leaving with a roll of the eyes and snarl, annoyed by the melodrama, the self-pity,** _Come looking for us when you've gotten over yourself._ **Richie had already left an hour before to check on security and production.**

Jon's imagination was his worst enemy. He could never express himself musically without worrying about the details. Screwing up devastated him, just like a painter being devastated by the flaws within the oils or acrylic or water colors that no one else could see.

**Richie was the first to return. And Jon was _still_ sitting in the same spot on the floor, brooding, a closet to his right and table to his left. The room was dark, the light of the hallway splitting through. **

Wow, even back then, he engulfed himself in a black silence.

 

 

_I saw a man down on a lonely street,_

_A broken man who looked just like me._

 

 

 

 **He hears the familiar clacking of boots beyond the light. A curious Richie stops at the doorway, and his eyebrows knot at the most peculiar sight.** _Whoa! You scared the hell out of me._ _Whatchu doin' over there on the floor, Kidd?_

 **If Jon were to speak, he would either yell at him or throw out a sarcastic insult, both of which would later send him into an unbearable guilt. He just lets out a long hot huff through the nostrils. He really didn't want to explain all this shit to him, but he didn't have to most of the time. The guitarist seemed to catch on with a** _ah,_ **and nod of the head. For a while, Richie just stands there, leaning against the entrance, then,** _You have got to get over this. You can't be so hard on yourself all the time._

 **Jon agrees dryly,** _I know._ **It's the first time he's spoken in a while.**

**Richie remains at the doorway for a bit, then walks over and sits down next to him in the dark, their arms, thighs and feet just a brush away from touch.**

 

_He lost his love and still hasn't forgiven._

_He said: I've been through some changes._

 

 

He had always watched him, didn't he?

Whenever Jon moved, he moved.

Had it always been that way? How long did the burn go on before that cold, cold night?

 

  **A salute to ACDC, then the video, then come the paintings, the shadows of the street walkers along the bricks, then back to them.**

Music TV was complete shit now. The parents _then_ thought their content damned their kids into a life of evil, making this the last century of mankind. Not letting his own children watch a lot of TV was ironic, almost hypocritical. And it may have been because he was old, the generation gap and the enlightenment of the millennials--yadda, yadda. But why watch Music Television when it wasn't musical? When did being creative and fun run out of style? What happened to the paintings and shadows and skits?

_We're ba-ack!_

**Richie throws out a rouchy** _haha!_ **straight from the back of his throat, tired from a night of shouting in a microphone with him.**

_It's late on a Saturday night and here we are in the middle of..._

**He turns back to Richie, who had finished gulping down another glass of champagne. He shares a glance with him through his large shades and the man looks around the room, confused, swaying his long hairs with each turn.**

_Australia,_ **Jon whispers.**

 **Richie stops mid-sway at the camera to repeat enthusiastically,** _AUSTRALIA!_

**Jon laughs again and continues on with his typical, boring mumbles.**

God, Jon really is envious of him. Richie had always been far more interesting than himself.

 

 

_But one thing always stays the same._

 

 

Each tune of the acoustic guitar pulled at somewhere within.

Sometimes, Jon could not summon the enthusiasm to write down a few notes.

Not by himself in an empty room.

 

 

_Without love,_

_There's nothing without love._  

_Nothing else can get you through the night,_

_Nothing feels right_

_Without love._

 

 

Although he was not comfortable with television--be it because it made him feel depressed and ashamed of his younger self, because he actually didn't like their content, or both--he was not opposed to video games or the internet, sources that could be just as asinine and dangerous, he realized, but he couldn't just cut his kids off entirely. He himself had fond memories of video games with his brothers and the internet could be very reliable if you looked in the right places. (It was funny because he failed Guitar Hero, a lot, on family game nights, as well as various karaoke games.)

And movies? He loved movies. He starred in a few himself when he wasn't touring or coaching football. (Although with some of the steamy love scenes he played in, he was surprised Dorothea had stayed with him as long as she did...)

And Youtube? Loved that shit too. Dorothea often picked on him for always looking down at his phone or tablet, for his long search history on a site mostly occupied by kids.  _(Hey, look at Mr. Kids Need To Stop Being On Their Phones So Much! I wish we had all of this when_ we _were kids.)_ He could spend hours on it. He didn't care much for Twitter or Facebook, but he liked scrolling through video after video. It was interesting to see the perspective of his audience, watching his concerts through the recordings of their phones, make him go, _God, did my hair really look like that?--Wow, I look really tired here--I make a lot of funny faces._ He also noticed that people loved lyric videos for some reason, more than the music videos themselves. He used this for 'Burning Bridges' on his VEVO. It was nice not to throw so much money into music videos if all his listeners were going to do were skip down to a lyric video below it.

 

 Jon was usually too shy and unsure to make the first move,

especially when they were younger. But that was fine.

Richie preferred to take the lead, preferred to be the one to

soothe, to caress, to whisper all the right and wrong things.

 

 **Then right after another music video:** _\--So Rich, uh, tell me, man--how do you find Australia?_

 **Using his Richard Starkey voice yet again, he answers through his nose,** _Turn left to Greenland._

Only those that watched 'A Hard Days Night' would get that joke. (But hell, even John Lennon, one of his musical inspirations, depressed him now. It was disheartening to learn that the 'genius' that was John Lennon was all just an illusion. He had already known prior that he was a drug addict and love rat, but he did not know of him hitting Cynthia Powell's head against a pipe and abusing, abandoning his first born, leaving him and his mother both no money to live by. What a monster. A part of the reason why he avoided having children for so long. Ever since then, any photograph of him or one of his songs or any comments from his blind adoring fans brought about instant disgust. Jon's pretty sure he had met his sons. And if not both, Julian at least, him being a rock star of the eighties himself.)

His time on Youtube was less frequent now, for obvious reasons. There was nothing but a bitter burn, when looking at himself and the missing person. And whenever he did find the time, he'd often log out feeling the same--nostalgic and regretful, hating himself, wondering what he did wrong. He'd call him, but he was too afraid to. Can you believe it? The relentless John Bongiovi too afraid to call up an old friend. He was afraid it would break the thin barrier of peace they had so delicately placed between them.

Sometimes Jon thinks sending a roadie to tell him was the right thing to do. If Richie had told him himself, there would have been a fight. Most likely. It was in the middle of a fucking tour, for Christ sake. And them separating after a fight that Jon started, leaving nothing but the same silence they had now, no communication what so ever--he would have never forgiven himself. He would have never gotten over it, no matter how much he would have tried dealing with it constructively. He could never run from it no matter how many shelters he built, no matter how many games he coached or movies he starred in. Tico knew that, David knew that and Dorothea too.

 

 Sometimes, when he had a few drinks, he'd sit alone

and dream, _will_ him to walk into the studio, will him

to walk through that lit doorway, just like on that night.

The reality makes Jon's eyes sting and choke out another at his center.

Why leave without saying anything?

Why?

**Richie tells him about how he too used to sit in an dark silence after a show when he was a lead singer. Jon smiles that wide, almost breakable smile of his. Then** **after a pause, without looking at him in the eye, confesses lowly,** _Sometimes I think I should just quit. Just let you run things instead._

"No." **The response is unexpectedly bold, a tone of voice you do not normally, or really _ever,_ hear from Richard Sambora. ****Jon then turns to look at him in surprise. It was not a light-hearted or even a subtle, but a forceful and commanding 'no'. When he turns to look at his guitarist, he finds a serious man. The first thing that he saw were his eyes, and how fierce they were, how serious they were under the contrasting lighting they were in. Then Jon's eyes wandered down to his lips and how the corners weren't curved up into his usual silly grin. He watches them open to speak boldly yet again,** "I don't want that."

**When he is over the shock, Jon argues that he is better suited to run the band. He is better at everything. He sounds better. He plays better. And he is fun. Jon is not fun or interesting.**

"That's not true," **Richie insists, shaking his head.**

**Jon isn't sure what to say now. But it was nice to get that off his chest. He just scoffs, half smiles and leans onto his shoulder, like he always does when he feels uneasy. And like usual, Richie reaches up and strokes his hair.**

 

 He wonders if he was just another game.

Another spur, a small fire to satisfy.

But he just couldn't see him being like that.

 

**In that moment, while he wasn't looking at him directly again, Jon asks him why he gave him a chance. When Alec brought him along to watch him perform for the first time, what was it that made him think he was rock star material. Richie answers that he had all the traits--good looks, good voice and charisma. Jon wonders how he could find him charismatic with him being so pathetic right now. And Richie tells him that he is only human.**

 

 Was he really that easy to replace?

Did Jon really treat him that horribly?

 

 **His hair and warm breath close enough, Richie inches in closer and closer at another pause. Jon sees this, but does not process it. There is a sigh from Jon,** "Ha..." **Richie gives him the lightest kiss he has ever felt, a ghost of the lips, treading very carefully into this strange new relationship. Strange it was, but it did not feel strange. In fact, Jon did not feel or think anything. His worrying, obsessive, irritated mind is numbed and blanked by complete and utter euphoria.**

 **He is somehow able to respond, even with his blissed out mind barely comprehending what is going on. He isn't worrying about someone walking in.** "Ah." **He** **isn't worried about being or looking desirable or comparing himself to Richie, like he has become an illiterate, undefined animal under a primal urge to touch and sigh.** "Mm."

**The only time he ever ran on pure nerves such as this was when he was on stage, but those times were still organized, compulsive.**

**Jon does not feel himself being gently pushed onto his back, little nudges from Richie's kisses,** _hm,_ **onto the floor, the edge of the table hovering over them. He does not feel his jeans being unbuttoned and slowly being pushed down, each of the talented guitarist fingers slipping in. As long as he continues to be kissed into numbness, he does not know.**

 

 Even if he did know, Jon's sure he did not care.

Well, at that moment.

 

**Jon does not think a thing until Richie pulls away to look down at him. Jon looks up at him back. He thinks of how he never noticed how handsome Richie was, even when they were this close together up at the microphone.**

Actually, maybe he did. At one point. He must have. Just not with those kinds of thoughts. If his guitarist were female, there may have been those kinds of thoughts. It was just easier to assume that instead of thinking too deeply about it. In that kind of society, somehow still mostly conservative, even when long after the civil rights movement, it was just easier to assume that. Not that Jon was a homophobe. He just never put such experimentation in mind.

**Starting from vocalist's gaze, Richie's eyes then wander down to Jon's exposed waistline, his cock and upper thighs seen in the dim light that they had. Then Jon feels shock, embarrassment from his distinctive body hair, and fear, but he still does not say anything. In despite, he is too interested in knowing what Richie wants from him, exactly.**

**When he starts kissing down his hairy chest and stomach, Jon then feels disgust, disgust at the thought of another man's mouth around his cock. The fear intensified at the thought of someone walking in on them, as the door is still wide open. Again, not because he's a homophobe or ashamed, he just did not want to go through the trouble of explaining what was going on. Just before Richie is about to suck him, Jon reaches down, placing both palms on either side of his face, pulling him back up for another gentle kiss. Jon tells him no. Richie lets out something between a sigh and a growl. He asks him,** "Why not?" **through a sigh. Jon will never forget how he asked him that, with so much desire, so much need.**

 

Oh, God. _Fuck._

Jon almost gave in to those words. Almost.

The man was so beautiful, he could have done it for him.

But this was too sudden for Jon.

There were too many things on his mind to actually get him off, even with a hard on.

 

 **Jon believes him and his words. He knew how caring Richie was and passionate, but still, he says no. Someone will surely walk in on them.** _Well, we can always just, you know, close the door,_ **Richie jokes with a grin. Jon laughs, feeling like a blushing woman under the intense flattery of a persistent admirer. He shakes his head, refusing again, lowers his shirt and pulls his pants back up to his waistline.**

 **Jon finally stands from the spot on the floor and heads for the lit doorway, not exactly sure where to go or what to do, but anything to keep the situation from going any further. Behind him, he can hear Richie stand too. He asks him,** "Are you scared? Because I didn't mean to scare you."

**Yes and no, but not for the reasons the guitarist thinks.**

 

 There, alone in his own studio, Jon wraps his arms around himself,

his hands over himself. He imagines they are Richie's hands.

He closes his eyes and kisses mid-air.

 

 **Richie's advances persist until the next morning, but more so just to tease Jon and make the kid blush from both embarrassment and annoyance. He follows Jon and sneaks in a few unsuspecting kisses when no one is around, surprising him and making him snap,** _Rich! Stop! Be serious! Someone could have seen that. There are cameramen everywhere._ **Sometimes he'd have to place a palm at the center of Richie's chest and push him away, lips and fingers lightly laced around his then very slim waist off.** _And you talk me down._ _You're the one who's acting like a kid._

 _What? There's nothing wrong with kisses._ **Then a** **fter a while of secret kisses and snapping, scolding, Rich then grins,** _Say you won't leave and I'll stop._

_Rich, come on._

_You gotta say it, man._

**Finally, sighing and smiling, he says,** _Alright. Maybe I'll stick around._

The dreams were very comforting, even if they were lies, the same kind of escapism he used to lure people to his shows. Some nights, when Jon fell asleep on the couch in the studio, the memories of the times before lulling him, pretending his own arms and hands were another's--Jon would fall asleep in the same silent darkness, dream of Richie calling him on the phone, _Hey, man, how are you? Your day doing great? Good. Hope you're not still mad at me._ Some nights, Jon would scream at him through the phone, tell him to never call him again, then wake up and hate himself for all the times he scolded him, making Rich feel oppressed and unappreciated. Other times, he would tell him sorry, beg him to come back and they would meet up later. Jon would hug him and whisper to him,  _Whatever it was, whatever you want, I'll fix it. I'll fix everything._  It felt so real. It sounded exactly like him, the words coming from that exact same grin. It even smelled like him, the leather and sweat. His Richie.

Or he would dream that it was a big joke that Richie pulled to get back at him for being a dick manager, and Jon would just scoff and shake his head and they would get back to work.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: By the way, I don't know the details of the time Jon smoked chemical-spiced pot and hallucinated. I don't know if it was around that time or not. It could have been long before the fame, before he met Richie. And he never gave the details, but he said it was so scary that he claimed to have never smoked pot again after. But it's a nice dramatic touch, isn't it. This is an exaggeration and so is this list of symptoms. The hallucinations described below was inspired by my own mother's experience when an entire clubs drinks were spiced with chemicals and made all the party-goers there have terrifying visuals. She believed that it may have been a failed attempt at a date rape drug. This band may have actually always been true to staying away from hard drugs. (Might explain why he has remained so attractive while all the other druggie rock stars have aged HORRIBLY.)

Jon wakes up from another dream in his empty studio yet again, coming back down to the earth, where his life is still trying to come to terms with this change. He had always wanted to keep a balance throughout the years and now that that balance was broken, he wasn't feeling neurotic or scared, but sad. The saddest he's felt in a long time. For the first time in a long time, he isn't sure what to do. A part of him really wants to run to his father, hug him and kiss him and tell him about his bad day and hear him say, _Oh, it'll pass in no time. Bad times don't last forever._ But his father was dead. And realizing that, he became more aware of his own end drawing nearer and nearer, stimulating the mid-life crisis.

He found himself wondering who in their band was going to leave this earth first, past members included.  

Jon rises from the studio couch, his old knees and shoulders popping. Richie had laid with him there too. Kissed him there, soothed him, held him after a long worrying day. He stumbled on to his house across the property in the cold morning air to meet Dorothea in the kitchen, in a bathrobe and making coffee.

He greets, _Morning,_ and his wife greets him back. They share the same glance and the same thought: _You really do miss him, don't you? You've been sleeping out in that studio for days, weeks._  

And she would say something like, _I told you he was the Devil,_ and Jon would break into his smile.

The couple shared these feelings and Jon began to wonder if his own children and wife even loved him. He wondered if he treated them well. As a father and a husband, he was absent a lot, more than he would like to admit, even when he _was_ home. He tried to get them involved in his activities, but what if they hated it? They smiled and laughed with him, hugged him and kissed him, and that made everything feel alright, made it feel how a family should feel--but Richie did all those things too.

 

 

_So this is it._

_Here it is,_

_A pot of gold,_

_A Judas kiss._

 

 

And then he left. Without a word. After thirty years.

 

 

_I got what I wanted._

_I paid every cost._

 

 

Then Jon began to wonder if he sometimes actually _hurt_  his children. Did he ever have an angry tone with them? Did he ever tease them and end up belittling them, hurting them instead? Was he just as neurotic and controlling outside of work?

With that fear in mind, Jon was more loving than he normally was that day. More hugs, kisses, back pats, hair rubs. All this time he spent in that damned studio, missing Richie, when he should have been spending all that time with his kids. Now he understood how Richie felt when he poured his heart out in an interview over how much he missed his daughter. And Ava was an only child too. Oh, no. Oh, good god. He must have sensed that she was experiencing the same only-child loneliness he himself felt as a boy.

Jon was so affectionate that he would share a glance with his wife and through her wide, sad eyes, he saw concern.

 

 

_I'd give it all back_

_To get back what I've lost._

 

 

The light-headed rush from 1986 to 1987 would be an exciting, terrifying hell.

Records were sold and they earned more money than they ever imagined. But the touring was twice as long, brutal, the label chanting, _Go here, go there, you haven't been there, you'll be home soon, don't worry,_ and he realized why musicians lost their minds. There were quite a number of times Jon remembered being on a completely different continent--South America, Europe, Asia--and fainting once off the stage. In his sleep-wake, he would feel his feet being lifted off of the ground and the warmth of someone's arms around him, carrying him. Sometimes it was the body guard and sometimes it was Richie, somehow still having the strength for such a feat after the show, trembling and sweating all over just like himself. Most of the time, Jon could barely speak by then with the mixture of time-zone exhaustion and hours of throat-jarring singing. When Richie settled him down in the tour bus or the hotel room, he would remember clutching onto him for dear life, not wanting him to leave.

 _Jon?_ **He would whisper, stroking his hair.** _Jon, what is it? Do you need something?_

**Richie would hold him and rock him, soothe him, in their silent darkness, dap at his sweaty face with a towel, help him gulp down bottles of water that at times made him cough, as if he were drowning. He was even too tired to bend over and reach to take his shoes off a lot of the time. Richie had to do it for him.**

"I hate seeing you like this," **Richie would say into his ear.** "You're miserable."

 **His nose and lips dipped into the guitarist's neck and collarbone, Jon would often lift his head up and kiss him as if to say,** _I'll be okay._ **He'd often go for a cheek, but sometimes he couldn't make it past his jawline and kiss his neck or shoulder.**

 **Richie would lean down, meet him halfway and kiss Jon back, cheek or lips, and** **say,** _I think you need to go to a hospital,_ **and Jon would shake his head very sharply. He dreaded going to see a doctor, especially one from another country. (It wasn't a racial thing, but a cultural thing, a location thing.) And all he really needed was a good long rest, a day off, two if possible, and he would be better. At least enough for another show, then pass out again.**

 **As the fainting continued, Rich became more and more furious. He would wait to explode when there were groups of jealous guys that came to their concert purely to laugh at them, calling them a 'faggot band' and how Jon had a 'belly full of cum waiting to be pumped out'.** _You got a problem with us--stand the fuck over there._ **Jon and the rest of them had _never_ heard him get angry like that, ever. Concerned for his lead singer's well-being, Richie demanded that he be taken to a hospital or scream at their label through the phone for all the hours they lost for rest and food and family time. **  

**The morning or noon after, he would wake up and feel nothing but the sheets and pillows beneath him. Richie would either be in the opposite bed or down with Tico, Alec and Dave and the others. Whenever Richie wasn't there, Jon would smirk at the thought of the fiend leaving him for a night with the groupies.**

It was the only time Jon ever considered doing drugs, but not to become addicted, and he's sure that's what all the rock stars before him thought. He started taking pills, the number of pills increasing each time, the thoughts, _It won't be a problem. I need more anyways,_ in the back of his mind. He knew he was addicted when he looked in the mirror one morning, thankfully a day off, and saw that his lips were chapped and torn, swollen in some parts, from biting down on them. He knew when he noticed that he started wearing shades indoors more than usual, for interviews or mixing--(ha! 'Mixing'. Remember when people said that?)--and _everyone_ knew that was code for 'too many drugs and/or alcohol'. He knew when bits of his arms were starting to become speckled red from him picking at them.

And he knew when Rich started showing the exact same signs, only bearing it with a smile, like a sad clown.

So he turned to pot, trying out something natural, but that didn't go too well either. The dealer sold it to him spiced with chemicals and he hallucinated. 

And _holy fuck,_ it was some crazy shit.

Being scared to death really didn't help with his sleeping problems. Everything was ten times louder, like the worst hangover ever. He would scream in utter horror when Rich blew up his amps or when Tico clashed his cymbals together. Hell, people just talking normally scared him. The fucking letters were flying out of their mouths. They told him afterwards that he was so afraid that he crawled over into a corner and refused to budge. The only person that managed to get close to him and stay with him was Richie, who let him rest his head onto his shoulder and cover his ears.

 **The words could barely be heard, but he knew they were there and they were real, separate from the hallucinations:** _Jon--It's Richie--I'm here. It's okay--Nothing's here to hurt you, Jon--I'm here--_

 _My skull's going to fucking split open,_ **Jon kept chanting.** _My head's going to burst open. I'm going to die. I'm going to die--_

_You're not going to die, Jon. I promise--_

Jon remembered smelling leather, feeling the texture in his nose and lips, the warmth of the guitarist's calloused hands in his hair, as he closed his eyes, trying to get away from the horrors that he saw. But they were still there when he closed his eyes.

In the back of his loud mind came the night of the flawed concert, when Richie crawled into a corner with him and numbed him with kisses. 

Needless to say, he never fucking did that again. You just can never trust your source.

 

 

_Like a wave on the beach,_

_Last leaf on the tree._

_It's all just a memory._

 

 

He'd wake up from reoccurring dreams of his hair and teeth falling out, dreams that he had heard were conjured from fears of growing old, losing your beauty.

 

 

_Love, pick me up._

_I'm down on my knees._

_My treasure just rags_

_Wings that don't fly._

 

 

 **When Jon fell again after a show, Richie was the one to catch him and clutch him, nearly violently shaking him,** _Jon! Stop this. Stop it. You need a doctor._

 _I need rest,_ **Jon insisted.** _That's all I need. I'll be alright._

_You can barely stand anymore!_

**But Jon insisted that there would be no going to a doctor. Richie eventually gave up trying to argue with his vocalist and helped him to his hotel room, but did not allow him to take any pills.**

**Jon groaned,** _My back and legs hurt, though. And my head. Agh, my head._ **He was a bit more talkative that night.**

 _I'll give you a massage,_ **Richie threw out, pulling off Jon's boots yet again**. _But no pills._

 **Jon flops his head down on the pillow and let's out a huff, then smiles,** _I guess I don't have a choice._

There came a time when the nights with whored-out groupies and waking up with drug aches--came a dullness. He did not come to terms with the morning guilt until Dorothea phoned him one day, _You're not the same, Jon. You said you wouldn't let it happen to you and it did. I'm sorry. I can't be with someone like you._ It wasn't until she left that he realized how empty he felt, how unauthentic he felt, when he regret everything he had ever done. He was going down that path.

 

 

_I ain't praying I'm choking._

_I'll fix what's been broken._

_Got nothing to hide,_

_No time for goodbye._

 

 

When he pleaded with Dorothea to stay with him and she said no, he ran to Richie, red-eyed and a bottle of alcohol in hand. (His fling with Diane was a joke. Everyone knew that. Even she knew it wouldn't have lasted.) If Richie wasn't alone, he would be eventually. He never had serious relations, and that was fine. Jon wasn't looking for anything serious. He didn't want to think like that at the moment. As soon as Richie closed and locked the door behind them, Jon laid the glass down and pulled the man in for a drunken, desperate kiss, a kiss that a fiend like Richie understood all too well, the 'I'm lonely, I want to be with someone, but don't want to be with just anyone' kiss.

 

 

_Nobody grieves,_

_A teardrop to the sea._

 

 

Then before they knew it, 1990 came around the corner and he could feel the zest of the decade before slip through his fingers. The man he was before was no man, no artist. At the turn of the decade, he turned thirty, the 'first year of complete loneliness', is what he believes they describe it to be. Without knowing, without having time to celebrate birthdays or have the time to think about them, he turned thirty, the year he feared, that year that conjured up all those nightmares of losing hair and teeth.

He was thirty, full of shame and wanted change.

While Jon was in charge of dozens, hundreds outside, here, Richie took care of him.

Here, in their silent darkness, he would numb him with kisses, touch and security,

help him forget his burdens.

Although Alec had thought of quitting for some time, it took the soft Jon a long while to get over the guilt. It was the same with Doc. Sometimes Jon had to ruin other people's dreams. They were the same dreams he had as a boy, with the dreamers working just as hard, if not harder than him. Sometimes he felt damned for doing the things he did. He felt that one day, it would all come back at him, that he would pay for it.

And it did. He waited for that time and thought he was prepared, but he _never_ thought it would come to this. It could have definitely been worse. There were some horrible band fall outs, and this wasn't even much of a fall out at all, as there was no fight, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

What hurt more, a fight or an earth-rumbling change in silence without a warning?

 

 

_They shake my hand, pat my back._

_They know my drink._

_'Welcome back'._

 

 

 **Richie gathers his things, pulls his hood over his head and makes a silly face for the camera:** _Uncle Richie gotta take his medicine now!_ **He hunches over and twitches stiffly, making them all laugh. Jon laughs too and rubs his head. He had a bit of a headache. They continue to laugh as Richie bends down over to Jon in his chair and pats his shoulder, slaps his arm jokingly.**

Wow, he didn't remember the camera being directed at him, zooming in on his face.    

 

 

_The life of the party,_

_Tears of a clown._

_Can't hear a heartbreak._

_The music is too loud._

 

 

**He looks aged and tired, no make up to hide the dark circles under his eyes. But he looks genuinely happy; sleepy, almost enchanted.**

**Richie takes the spotlight again, stiffly jumping in front of the camera:** _Come with me!_ **T** **he guys cackle with laughter again.**

 

 

_It's just broken glass,_

_Chalk lines on the scene._

 

 

"I still think about it," **Jon whispered one night as he and Richie laid in their**

**silent darkness yet again.**

**As Richie held him, a hand stroking his wavy hair and the other on Jon's**

**opposite bicep, he whispers back,** "I know you do."

 

 

_Move along, move along._

_There's nothing here to see._

 

 

When Richie texted him for the first time since he left, Jon thought he was dreaming again. 

 

 

_A teardrop to the sea,_

_A teardrop to the sea,_

_A teardrop to the sea..._

 

 

**Whenever Jon got like this, Richie would sweet-talk him into numbness,**

_Sssh. You're alright. Everything'll be okay. Don't you worry, Kidd._

**Jon could feel his pulse and he was sure Richie could feel his.**

**After a few beats, Richie would sigh,** "You're so beautiful," **and Jon would wonder if what he**

**heard was even real or just a hallucination brought on by the sensory-deprived darkness,**

**or the sanity-deprived passion.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just when I thought this story would be one chapter...  
> Then two chapters...  
> Just keeps going, huh?  
> I honestly don't even know when it'll end now.

First came the escapism--the sleeping in the studio and not getting any writing done, dreaming of the missing person on the couch they once shared. Next came the hours of stinging hot tears and choking sobs in the dark of his office, the laughter of his wife and children in the dining room a couple of rooms over. At the time, he had received the first text message since the departure, and among messages between Teek and Dave and his assistant--(a text message he wasn't going to repeat; Sambora's typing was _horrendous;_ his own daughter probably had better grammar than him)--something about leaving some of his things at the studio and how he did not mind what Jon did with them--sell them, throw them away, ect; that he wasn't sure if he was going to come back to the studio anymore--(a studio _they built themselves--together--on Jon's property)--_ not even just to live there, so it was just a waste of time to continue paying for it. 

It was just so--unfeeling. Casual. Like he was ordering a meal. Like the sweat and blisters spent into build the damn building meant _nothing._ And if that was something so easy to shrug off, he might as well have tossed out all those times they laughed in the silliness of exchanging lyrics and the nights of crying, promising not to abandon each other; that it was the band against everyone else.

And just like in his dreams, Jon was caught between screaming at him and begging him to at least talk to him again and not make it look like it was so goddamn easy to move on.

 

 

_Another long and senseless night._

  _You need someone to hold you tight._

_Sometimes love don't know wrong from right._

_Another long and senseless--_

 

 

Then finally came the anger--the accusations, the threatening, the blaming--which was mostly directed at Mercury-- _(I'm tired of all your shit--It's over--What do you need me for?)--_ the remaining anger left for Richie and himself.

'Burning Bridges' was a big _fuck you_ to Mercury, and those helping him record it at the time knew from the sound of his singing that he was _pissed_.

 

 

_Fight was all you knew, they're all the same._

_There's no one left to take the blame._

_What's behind this masquerade?_

_How do we win this losin'?_

 

 

Ever since that cold, cold night, that tender moment on the floor of that dark room, the staggering quotes in his head--(the hungry _Why not?--_ _Did I scare you?)--_ Jon started looking at Richie's hands more, how strong and handsome they were. And his mouth. His grin was great, but he loved the rare settle, when his lips just fell and relaxed along the teeth line. And it was funny. While he looked at his hands and settled lips more, Jon kept a distance between them. For a while, he did not lay his head onto his shoulder, and the hugs were quick, stiff and--indirect. No eye contact, an awkward back pat. They would meet up with the guys, or be sitting at the studio, the heat of Richie's arms inches from his when leaning against the buttons, or at a fucking diner--(the habit of the guys sitting with the bandmate they were compatible with, which was usually Teek with Dave, Jon with Richie, or instead Alec with Richie)--and Jon would move away a bit whenever Richie was near, which was a lot of the time, as they were the leading men. It was required to be near each other all the time. It was required that there be lots of communication. 

And it hurt, the rare times Jon would glance up at the man and see Richie giving him those sad brown eyes for every time he moved away.

 

 

_Games we play, words we say,_

_Cutting wounds we know they run so deep._

 

 

He should have just been honest with him then. At the time, Jon didn't know what to do. He wasn't prepared to take these emotions head on, but it wasn't doing them any good to give out mixed, confusing signals. But whenever Jon thought of telling him _I don't feel that way about you_ or _It's best that we keep a distance,_ it ate at him. It bothered him and he didn't know why. He did enjoy Richie's affections, but as to how far the affections met his standards--he wasn't so sure then.

He wasn't sure what he would tell him once Richie would ask about it, because he knew he would eventually. There were two things he stressed: fan service and communication. (Wow, the irony is almost _oozing_ at this point.)

 

 

_Leave it all behind you,_

_Or someday love will find you._

 

 

It wasn't until Richie started talking to Dave more that it _really_ hurt, and he would always do this whenever there was a disagreement, whenever he was having 'Jon problems'. And Jon really didn't like it when a juvenile thing like jealousy was bigger than him. There was no good reason to be jealous of Dave. Hell, he knew the guy longer than Richie. But it was true. They were the two fun guys in the group. They seemed to click, better than himself and Richie it seemed at times, when it came to joking around, and Jon _hated_ that feeling. Because he knew he wasn't fun to be around.

 _\--Let's see, we have played 176 dates so far,_ **Richie** **explains through a failed attempt at a Liverpool accent, through the nose of Richie Starkey.**

 **Dave nods,** Very _interesting, very interesting,_ **his own silly attempt at an English accent.**

_Had a very good time too, I must add._

_And how many people would that equal?_ **When Richie doesn't answer right away, instead gives the camera the good old tongue tuck in the bottom lip from good old bastard John Lennon, he shakes his head.** _Not big at math, the Sambora._

 _Uh,_ **Richie laughs nervously.** _Well, you see, basically..._

_That's 176 times...?_

**Richie dips his head downward, the black cowboy hat hiding his gaze as he thought. (Geez, what was with him and black cowboy hats?) Finally, he pops up, that silly grin on his face, a rouchy,** _It's MAGIC!_

 **Dave breaks out into a snicker,** _It's MAGIC times 20--_

(And of course, there was them gurgling 'Over The Waves' once they brushed their teeth and finished with mouthwash, David gurgling some out onto his neck and chest. Yuck. It was probably the _least_ attractive thing he's ever seen _either_ of them do. It wasn't really funny. Just gross.)

_\--We've played to FIVE MILLION people, you realize that?_

 

 

_Only lonely, oh!_

_I can't stop hurting you._

 

 

It was Tico that came to Jon about it first. The, _Hey, are things okay between you too? You're both acting really weird. Did you guys have a fight or something?_

Then after Teek, to his surprise, came David, whose exact words were, _You've been burning a hole through me with your glares ever since Rich started hanging out with me more. I gotta say that I feel really bad and don't know why._ David grinned and snickered when he said that, but even so, Jon was mortified. Was it that obvious? _Yeah, dude. You have this face. Whenever we're joking around, you have this really tired or angry look._

(This 'face' that Jon had would later be affiliated with his infamous 'stink eye', the look that he gave you whenever you screwed up on stage.)

And so, not being able to handle the tension anymore, Jon finally gave in and told David what happened. He knew he could trust David. He had known him for years. What he liked best about the guy was that he wasn't as serious and intense as Jon was. So when he told him that the two front men were possibly at one point 'more than friends', or whatever, he took it with a rise of the brow and a shrug. _Really? That's it?_

_Well, it's just--I don't know how to feel about it._

_Well, here's the thing--friends, lovers or fuck_ buddies--[Jon shushes the keyboarder through his teeth, _Not so loud._ Just what needed to said out loud]--we _need you guys to get along somehow. Me and Tico and Alec and rest of us rely on the balance between you two. If something goes wrong between you, we're screwed too, and in a different_ sense--[Jon knew that was coming]-- _You guys need to talk it out. Don't worry, I won't tell._

Dave tried really hard to push for more details, quieter this time, _How far have you guys gone? Is he as big as he seems? Is he as good as he thinks he is?_ But Jon just shushes him again. 

 

 

_Only lonely, oh!_

_I can't stop lovin' you._

 

 

And it was Dave that talked with him after the tour Richie decided to just say _fuck it_ and leave, and never come back this time. Richie had left before and came back after he cooled off, be it a couple of weeks, a month or so. But night after night passed and before Jon knew it, nearly two whole years had gone. It became pretty clear that there may not be a return this time, a swallow of pride and apology. 

When they were alone, Jon laid his head into his shoulder, just like he did with the runaway bandmate, and cried. It was the first time he had cried with anyone in a while, the tears shed before spent alone in the studio or in the dark of his office. The only people he would ever been this vulnerable around were his wife and Richie.

And that was the thing. Richie taught him how to cry. How to cry without feeling shame. Dave and Tico did not mind, but they were not as emotional as him and Rich. Crying with him was really more awkward for them, while with Rich or Dorothea, it was natural.

 

 

_Only lonely, oh!_

_How much pain does it take?_

 

 

Part of the reason why he was afraid of sleeping with another man was the silent scare of AIDs. There was a panic in the seventies, only for it to be suppressed into a fearful silence in the eighties. A lot were weary, but were too afraid to mention it, and then once mentioned, people often laughed at you for being paranoid. They just thought if they just ignored the reality, it would just magically go away, like it was just a cold going around, kind of like how most people like to deal with social-political issues anyway. And because of this, there was an uproar from parents, a push for either one of the extremes--to either teach their kids sex education or not teach them and try to suppress their sexuality, make them abstinent, 'pure'. (The sex education extreme never reached Jon's hometown. And if it did, he probably wouldn't have recklessly lost his virginity at twelve or thirteen years of age.)

Freddie Mercury's passing in 1991 pushed the controversy back into the light. It was very real and scary and needed research, and Jon felt kind of relieved.

 

 

_It's getting sometimes, I don't know_

_When to stop, when to go._

 

 

It took a bit to adjust to the affection in public. When Richie kissed him for the first time on stage--another cheat, a joke testing the singer through his wide, mischievous grin--Jon _freaked out_ once they were finally alone.

_You're losing your shit over that? And we've been cuddly in front of the cameras for years now?_

_Don't give me that. It was different then._

_How? We're doing the same thing, just a little more. Big deal._

_Whatever._

_If we make a big deal about it, it'll just make it obvious. Too late to do anything about it now._

Asshole.

 

 

_Sometimes we're so afraid to let it show._

 

 

**There's a silence between him and the guitarist**

**in the booth when the others leave** **for the night.**

**The elephant stares the two down from inside**

**the now blackened recording** **booth. Actually, only one person is**

 **being stared down, and that's Jon. Whether** **it is by the**

**elephant or Richie or both, or if the situation is**

**staring Jon down _through_** **Richie, Jon isn't sure.**

 

 

_A stolen kiss so out of place,_

_It wipes the smile right off your face._

 

 

"What?" **Jon finally forces out, a bit more defensive than he intended.**

 **Richie just shakes his head lightly, lips perched out,** "Nothin'. Just looking at you."

"Why?" **Jon asks, a hint of sassiness in his voice, a sway of the head.**

**There is a settle of Richie's lips, and he lowers his voice to say,**

"I wish I could kiss you again. I really want to."

 

Because of this, they hardly got any work done, not when they were wasting entire days away cuddling, smoking cigarettes and napping. Or at least it _felt_ that way. To Jon, at least. Not jotting down notes for a while made him feel like the laziest man ever. Whenever Jon nagged about not getting any work done, Richie would say, _Dude, you're allowed to relax for a couple of days. You nearly fucking died on these tours. I should know. I had to carry your ass off the stage. They can't say that you_ haven't _been working._

Even so, work was very important. Artists don't have time for vacations. He'd push Richie off him, palm to the center of his chest, _Be serious, for once in your life,_ and Richie would give him that hurt look and Jon would feel something eat at him again.

Jesus Christ. This couldn't continue. So Jon made a deal with this man-child of a bandmate, courtesy of the inner businessman: _For each song we finish, you can--_ [in that moment of hesitation, he could barely find the right words, and once he found the first thing that came to mind and let it slip, he nearly regretted it]-- _do whatever you want._

He remembered Richie's eyebrows rising in surprise. _Now you're onto something._

_Yeah, yeah, yeah._

This idea proved to be very effective. Not only did they write songs at a fast rate, they were writing songs for other bands too. This was a great way for them to, in a way, go back to how things used to be--the joking around, the witty comebacks--actually _have fun_ with their work.

 **After the last few notes, the lines they struggled to fit in at the bottom of the page, Richie said,** _Alright_. _Pay up._

 **Jon places a palm at Richie's chest, stopping him.** _Not yet. One more song._

_Oh, come on. A deal's a deal._

_You're gonna have to work harder for over time._

**When the deed was finally met, Richie stressed,** _Can't avoid it now_ _._

**Jon rolls his eyes and lets out a long sigh.** _Okay,_ **he says.**

 _So what do you want?_ **Jon waits for some crazy, kinky request,**

**but for the first time, he was surprised to find** **Richie scooting**

**up behind him, spreading his legs to let Jon sit in between them**

**and wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close.**

**It would be nearly impossible** **to fight out of the hold.**

 _I feel like there's more to this,_ **Jon says after an awkward** **silence.**

 **Richie perks out his lips,** _No, not really. I'm not a horny old pig ALL the time._

 **For their first time, Richie just** **holds Jon close like that,**

 **occasionally leaning** **down to mouth at his neck,**

 **making Jon blush and sigh,** **kissing his hair** **wavy hair,**

**the hot huffs of Richie's nose warming the strands**

**as they continue talking about the tracks; softly, gingerly on their**

**abused vocal chords.**

After about a few months of this, Richie started cheating the game, and often when they were undressing in the locker room or somewhere in public--a strong, calloused hand snaking around Jon's waist or even a butt pat--and Jon would gasp and slap his arm, _You!_ and snap through his white, baring teeth. (In his mind, he was keeping a tab on how many lyrics Richie owed for cheating.) And Richie would just break into his grin and laugh silently. What was so fucking funny about pushing his buttons? Tico, David and Alec would look at them funny, their brows knotting together or rising, and their confusion just made Richie laugh even harder.

One time, Jon actually ended up slapping him--across the face--like a woman--and Richie laughed _hard._

Jon gave his usual _stop it!_ through clenched teeth and stomped off, but the guitarist probably didn't hear him, being so blindly amused. That's probably the only time he's ever heard him break through his silent laugh.

 

 

_'Cause when those feelings start,_

_We let them go, let them go._

 

 

In And Out Of Love.

That's what Richie played. (From their album '7800 Fahrenheit', an album, when looking back on it, Jon could have had  _nicer_ feelings about.)

That's what he started playing on his guitar at random, with that stupid grin and stupid hat of his--black and beaded. And it really shouldn't have. That was an album long before their little 'deal'. He was already tired halfway through the show, trying to tune up his guitar for the next song--and he just couldn't help himself. He told him to stop, a little louder and a little more irritated than he meant it to, the mic catching it. And Richie just broke into his silent laugh, making the audience laugh and saving them.

**Jon remembered sitting in between Richie's**

**spread legs and being wrapped** **in his arms,**

 **when Richie leaned down to whisper,** _I like your legs._

**He then went on about how they were so**

**much like a woman's and that** **he loved it when Jon wore**

 **skin-tight pants or shorts, said that he** **loved it**

**when Jon crossed his legs in those tight pants,**

**the good thigh-over-thigh. He also loved it when**

**he swayed his hips and legs around on stage in those tight**

**pants, showing off their thin, feminine shape.**

David caught them kissing once, in the studio, a _really_ bad place for musicians to do something they wanted to keep secret. Richie was cheating again, catching Jon off guard after hours of work and leaning down, taking him in his arms and ravishing him in kisses, barely giving Jon time to back off. He was right in the middle of trying to wiggle out of Richie's arms and kisses when David knocked on the door, making them both jump and stop.

 _Shit!_ **Jon snapped, and pushed the guitarist off him.** _I told you!_

Ever since, whenever Richie pulled one of his more _casual,_ more _ambiguous_  cheats out in the open, making Jon snap at him, then stomp away, furious, David would laugh with Richie. Fan-freaking-tastic. Just what he needed, _two_ bandmates laughing at him. (If Alec ever found out, he never said anything, and he _could have._ It would have been a great way of getting back at Jon for firing them. He claimed that there was no anger towards Jon for what he did, but even so, Jon knew it hurt knowing he was basically a 'transitional guy'. And when Tico found out is anyone's guess. Jon didn't know if he had always known or what, but he reacted the situation like he reacted to everything, basically. And that was not really giving a shit. _Aw, hell,_ he remembered Tico mumbling. _You guys are just like John and Paul. Everyone is pretty sure they have fucked at least once._ )

He believed Dave described the kissing as 'eating at each other's faces', and added, _If you guys are gonna do shit like that and NOT want people to find out, maybe not do it in one of the most obvious places. Paparazzi's sneak in and hide in the trashcans, you know; waiting for the perfect time to take pictures._  

Yes, Jon didn't need to be reminded. 

 

 

_How much pain can you take_

_Before your heart breaks?_


	5. Chapter 5

There were times when Jon could see something in the way Richie stared at him longer than usual and thought there was some truth to the things he whispered, a connection in the way he carried him off the stage and held him when he was afraid. A sincerity in the hurt and fear he expressed when Jon thought of leaving the band. A lover instead of a fuck buddy when he cuddled him instead of going straight to passionate sex. _Sssh--You're alright--What is it, Jon?_ \--Do _you need something?--_ _You're so beautiful--I wish I could kiss you--You're so amazing--_ the numbness the kisses brought into his everyday life and the businessman was nearly silenced completely, forgotten out of existence with feelings of a child-like trust. But then Richie would come home with a groupie or a model, or come home damp with sweat and the aroma of a woman's perfume, and Jon would feel his stomach drop from a kick of anger and shame, feeling like a damned fool--lowly growling his sentences, slamming doors, isolating himself from the others.

(There came a wave of amusement and satisfaction watching Howard Stern pick him apart with the questions of dating Cher and doubting his ability to 'please a woman like her', only sleeping with her because it was 'the idea of Cher'.)

In the end--burned and bittered out of the string of confusion and disappointment--Jon ran to Dorothea's house, her parents there to see the empty-handed man that he really was, wanting nothing more than their daughter in his life. _It's now or never. I want you back. I need you, Dorothea. If I didn't say that now, I feel like I never would. Or someone would take you before I summoned up the courage. I just want another chance. We can make this work._  

She came first, before Richie--the school dances, the games--and he knew she genuinely loved him and wasn't using him in these stupid love games. 

If he was going to lose the band and fame, which was very likely--(he never _imagined_ it would last thirty years)--what else would he have?

 

 

_I got your picture on my phone,_

_Your voice in my head._

_I'm lying here alone,_

_Restless in some faraway bed._

 

 

After listening to numerous death threats from her father, Jon married his best friend, the excitement of the reception at the very least distracting him from reality for a while. The 'deal' was never discussed again, so Jon assumed it ended with a silent agreement. One of the great things about having Richie as a close friend was that Jon never really had to say anything for him to understand what he was thinking. At first, Jon thought he did it out of respect for him and Dorothea, but being as sentimental as he was, more than him and the others thought--he realized it was because of his hold onto certain values. Richie was a fiend, but he had a lot of respect for marriage and family love. That's probably why he was the last of them to get married, waiting for the right time. The outcome did not turn out so well, at all, but it was the sentiment that mattered.

The months passed normally and yet somehow, Jon fell into a state of emptiness, starting with bits and growing into weekly episodes of apathy and oversleep. He wasn't sure why, exactly. He didn't know if it was because the demands of the label were higher, that he stopped the stimulants entirely, that he was burned out of all the screaming women, now growing into annoyance, if he was losing his musical zest, or...

When he didn't cry, the pent up energy made him slam doors, growl his words and the stress seemed to make him deaf at times, completely zoning out on entire conversations. Dorothea or the guys would be chatting away and Jon would not hear any of it, being too caught up into his problems. _Hey, are you listening?--Dude, what's gotten into you?--Do you want children? I think you would be a great father--Again? Have you been sleeping any?_

Finally, the sleepless nights came in the form of tears and missing sentences through soft sobs in the echo of the studio, Richie and Tico and Dave there to rub his back and tell him that it was going to be alright.

They told him to take a break. The album could wait. Richie was going to take over for now. _I've had a lot of notes locked away._ [The notes for 'Stranger In This Town' solo album.] _Perfect time for me to use them and for you to get some rest._  Normally, Jon would have declined, but in that moment of weakness, he went straight home and crashed, planning on only resting for a day or so. After all, that's all he needed when he fainted after shows. When he woke up, entire months had passed. Then a year. He only had enough motivation to get out of bed and get a drink, sleep the rest of the day away. There grew a layer of stubs, but he did not have the energy or interest to shave. And if he managed to walk out onto the balcony or even a walk on the streets, Jon came across a new and very dangerous perspective. He began to appreciate the thought on how _easy_ it would be to just jump up off the balcony, onto the concrete and end it all. He thought of how _easy_ it would have been to just jump in front of a moving car or train.

 

 

_The stars falling down,_

_And I'm half a world away,_

_I'm just trying to close the distance_

_To feel each breath you take._

 

 

Dorothea of course, came to him with her concerns,  _Are you alright, Jon? No, really. Are you alright?_  But Jon just couldn't weigh on her like that. She was strong, so much stronger than him. So wonderful. Strong like Richie. Sometimes another crazy thought came to mind: That if he were to end it all, he'd want Rich to take care of her, through marriage or just as friends. Or sex buddies, like they used to be. It wouldn't have mattered. Jon would be dead, so he wouldn't be there to approve or protest.

 

 

_When the bridge is burning_

_And I'm losing my faith,_

_And I'm trying to find my way_

_Towards the truth--_

 

 

**Jon never planned on actually going through**

**with these dangerous new fantasies.**

**But one weak night, he stumbled to Richie's**

**place, drunk, and in the dead of night,**

**in their silent darkness, Jon ended up**

**blurting it all out to him, tears spilling**

**with the erratic words.**

 

 

_Like a wild arrow flying_

_And I'm blindly_

_Running_

_From everything I thought I knew_

 

 

Richie showed up late one night, just as drunk and pathetic. He came over and blurted from the doorway to Dorothea, his usual grin up, _Hey, little lady! Mind if I borrow your husband for a bit? Thought we'd go to_ [some local pub or diner; Jon couldn't remember] _and look over some notes. I think he needs it as much as I do_. Dorothea jokes around with him for a bit, flirts with him and calls for Jon. Jon thought this was a little strange. Normally, they would have gone out to eat with the other three, but Jon agreed to go with him, grabbing his coat. Maybe Rich had been dumped by a girl and was the one feeling used for once.

They walk--or really stumble--down the streets. And when they reach a dark, empty alley, Richie, to Jon's surprise, pulls him to the side. Slamming them against some filthy brick wall, a bust of air being blown out of Jon, _ah!,_ Richie kisses him hard. His values and history and politics temporarily lost in the haze, just like Jon that one night, he ended up spilling waves of erratic words and tears.  _I can't keep it in anymore._ His helplessness was so alien to Jon that the sight almost scared him. He told Jon that it was all for him. _You remember when you asked me why I wanted to become a part of your band? Why I snuck backstage to meet you?_ He said it was because of Jon. He soaked up his entire being--his voice, his lips, eyes. He snuck backstage to get to him. He went because he wanted him, that he loved him.

Jon was listening to all this and thought it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

 

 

_And every road_

_Leads home_

_To you._

 

 

All of a sudden, before Jon came make out all the things he had just heard, Richie throws his entire weight onto him again, the guitarist's strong fingers digging into his sides and kissing him hard on the mouth a second time, teeth clashing and gasps from the both of them. His mind scrambles for an explanation, looking for validity in his drunkenness, while also looking for a way to reject Richie gently. He didn't want to hurt him too much, even with the grief he had caused him in the past. This was the man that filled in for him the past year, after all.

 

 

_Home to you._

 

 

**But the frustration being bigger than him,**

**all he can do is cry out,** "Rich! You're hurting me."

 **He places a hand up onto one** **of Richie's shoulders.**

"Stop! You're drunk!"

 

 

 

_So you got me to believe,_

_Made me turn on a dime._

 

 

Jon remembered how much he was shaking, his heart pounding. Whether it was from excitement or fear, he did not know.

 

 

 

_The writing on the wall,_

_Right in front of me--_

_Every song, every rhyme._

 

 

**Richie tries to kiss softer, slower this time,**

**probably realizing the fear he is causing.**

**He snakes an arm around Jon's waist just as**

**soft and slow--and his hands, even through his clothes;**

**God, those hands. But in this confusing thrill, Jon**

**managed to grab two fistfuls of Richie's jacket**

**and shove him away.**

 

 

_But I don't need a thousand words._

_I need you safe in my arms._

 

 

"Shit," **Richie cussed, now flat against the opposite wall.**

"Oh god, I--," **he pants,** "I'm so sorry, Jon. I--I didn't--"

**Before him is a trembling Jon and all he can think about**

**is how this aggressive man at the wall used to be the source**

**of comfort in these staggering moments. Now trembling with**

**anger and sick of his shit, Jon told him that they weren't**

**kids anymore.** _It's over, Rich. We need to grow out of_

_these kinds of relationships. I'm a changed man. A married man._

**Richie asks him if he is leaving the group and Jon is**

**unable to answer, the answer stuck at tongue tip.**  

 

 

 

_I'll keep standing strong,_

_I'll keep holding on_

 

  **Realizing that they probably didn't want to go through**

**with eating, and Jon could not go home to his wife**

**right away, he** **offered to help Richie get back home safely.**

 

Somehow, that whole experience was enough to make Jon put the alcohol aside and stomp back to the studio. He had been away long enough. Richie was falling apart handling things on his own.

They never brought the night up because they had to. They couldn't just let this trivial nonsense get in the way of work. And to help adjust to this new chapter, Jon cut off all his hair. And for some reason, the entire world lost their shit over it. The only thing good that came out of it was that Bon Jovi was brought back into the light, _the start of a new renaissance,_ as Jon put it. He remembered how his father used to tell him about how just getting a haircut changed people's entire lives. It changed their perspective and perspective is literally everything. He'd talk about how insecure people did not feel sexy and confident until they found the right style, _Aw, all these ladies. They are wild, wonderful, dangerous creatures when they feel sexy. Your mother can tell you all about that, haha!_

(Oh, good lord.)

And he was completely right. He felt that power he got when he and the group got hair extensions, and then when he cut it all of in possibly his darkest years yet, when he appreciated how easy death could be--he walked down to Richie's place in the dead of night. When he opened the door, a determined man stood before him, piercing blue eyes to brown, no longer afraid.

 

 

_When life tries tearing us apart._

 

 

It was Jon this time to jump Richie, taking the glass out of the guitarist's hand, setting it down and pulling him in for a kiss. There, Jon had made up his mind, _Things are going to change._ He had decided to take everything into his hands.

 

 

_No, I ain't regretting_

_Just how lost I'm getting_

_Or the red lights I've been blowing through._

_My foot will find the pedal_

_As I'm counting the lines._

 

 

There is a settle of Richie's lips and a look of surprise, then a look of pride. The man smiles, and not his usual mischievous grin, but a small smile of assurance, _There's my Johnny. I'll help in any way I can. Just give the word._

**Richie's eyes widen when this new, almost aggressive**

**Jon grabbed him by his shirt and pulled the two of them**

**backwards--Jon's back side on the table and Richie**

**standing before him. Once he was sitting and settled**

**along the edge, Jon wrapped an arm around the man's**

**neck, boots around him and settling at his calves,**

**and told him to take him, right there, on that table.**

**Richie's eyes widen in shock and there is a moment of**

**hesitation before he does as he is told and leans in for**

**a deep kiss, a kiss just as sloppy and barbaric as the** **last.**

God, it had been so long since they had done that. Too long.

 **Richie's lips barely separate from Jon's as he gasps,** _Jon, don't leave. Ever._

 _Don't leave the group._ **Jon responds by grabbing a fistful of Richie's**

 **hair and growling into the continued kiss,** _Shut up._ **Both barely**

 **have their** **jeans down when Richie shoves into him,** **Jon keeping**

 **his** **grip onto the guitarist and ordering him to go harder, faster.**

 

_Every road home leads to you,_

_Every road home leads to you._

 

 

  **When they cry out blissfully, panting and sweating,**

**the cum dripping out onto the wood of the table,**

**Jon kisses Richie, a lot more slowly and gently this time,**

"Thank you." [For filling in for me, for supporting me.]

 

Another day with Dorothea and the kids, sitting with his wife at bench in the backyard, holding her hand and kissing her, thanking her for all her support throughout the years. There's a slight breeze lulling their gray, aged hair. They stare into each other's aged eyes, wondering where the time had gone. It felt like they were high school sweethearts and then to there in mere moments, in a flash of lights.

He looks at her and the tinge of the crisis sinks in for a moment. Just like his bandmates, he wondered which of them would be fated to leave first.

He looks into her eyes, the laughter of their youngests playing out in the distance, by the lake, the fading yellows and reds of the sunset painting the water, and mouths, _I love you._ She blinks and her brow curves somewhere in between concern and sadness. She may have been wondering the same thing. _I love you too._  

 

_Home,_

 

 

John Lennon's enduring quote repeats in his head, _I've had two companions in my life: Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono. That's not bad._

He had two companions too. If only he could share the same appreciation with his second. Like he said before, on his own, he'd either be broke or dead.

 

 

  _The road still leads me home to you._

_Sometimes I don't see the signs,_

_The headlights make me blind,_

 

 

The day ends with Jon dirtying hands in the gardens, the vegetables and herbs that are ready to be picked already planned to be put in recipes for the Soul Kitchen.

As he watches the last red bits of the sun fall behind the hills, he imagines Heaven, if such a place existed, a place his mid-life crisis wanted him desperately to believe--he wondered if his 'room' would be a city street in the eighties or by the lake with his wife and youngests, a shadowy figure with a cowboy hat leaning against a tree in the background. That, or the figure would be hiding away in the guest house or the studio, playing his guitar and humming melodies as he waited for him. Jon wondered if he would smell leather and sweat and cigarette smoke in the small evening breeze.

 

_The road still leads me home to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May continue this in another story. Had to bring it to end here, otherwise I would never finish it. Hope you enjoyed!


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